other. At last one of them spoke: "We haven't either of us a chance to hold on much longer, I judge."

"No," said the other, with a little mixture of sadness and recklessness, "you did that last job of yours well, as that bears witness," and he pointed to a wound a little above the heart, from which the life blood was slowly oozing.

"Not better than you did yours," answered the other, with a grim smile, and he pointed to a wound a little higher up, larger and more ragged,—a deadly one. And then the two men gazed upon each other again in the dim light; for the moon had come over the hills now, and stood among the stars, like a pearl of great price. And as they looked a soft feeling stole over the heart of each toward his fallen foe,-a feeling of pity for the strong manly life laid low,—a feeling of regret for the inexorable necessity of war which made each man the slayer of the other; and at last one spoke: "There are some folks in the world that'll feel worse when you are gone out of it."

A spasm of pain was on the bronzed, ghastly features. "Yes," said the man, in husky tones, "there's one woman with a boy and girl, away up among the New Hampshire mountains, that it will well-nigh kill to hear of this;" and the man groaned out in bitter anguish, "O God have pity on my wife and children!"

And the other drew closer to him: "And away down among the cotton fields of Georgia, there's a woman and a little girl whose hearts will break when they hear what this day has done;" and then the cry wrung itself sharply out of his heart, "O God, have pity upon them!"

And from that moment the Northerner and the Southerner ceased to be foes. The thought of those distant homes on which the anguish was to fall, drew them closer together in that last hour, and the two men wept like little children.

And at last the Northerner spoke, talking more to himself than to any one else, and he did not know that the other was listening greedily to every word:

"She used to come,-my little girl, bless her heart!—every night to meet me when I came home from the fields; and she would stand under the great plum-tree, that's just beyond the back-door at home, with the sunlight making yellow-brown in her golden curls, and the laugh dancing in her eyes when she heard the click of the gate,-I see her now, and I'd take her in my arms, and she'd put up her little red lips for a kiss; but my little darling will never watch under the plum-tree by the well, for her father, again. I shall never hear the cry of joy as she catches a glimpse

GONE WITH A HANDSOMER MAN.

139

of me at the gate. I shall never see her little feet running over the grass to spring into my arms again!"

"And then," said the Southerner, "there's a little brown-eyed, brown-haired girl, that used to watch in the cool afternoons for her father, when he rode in from his visit to the plantations. I can see her sweet little face shining out now, from the roses that covered the pillars, and hear her shout of joy as I bounded from my horse, and chased the little flying feet up and down the verandah again.'

And the Northerner drew near to the Southerner, and spoke now in a husky whisper, for the eyes of the dying men were glazing fast: "We have fought here, like men, together. We are going before God in a little while. Let us forgive each other."

The Southerner tried to speak, but the sound died away in a murmur from his white lips; but he took the hand of his fallen foe, and his stiffening fingers closed over it, and his last look was a smile of forgiveness and peace. When the next morning's sun walked up the gray stairs of the dawn, it looked down and saw the two foes lying dead, with their hands clasped in each other, by the stream which ran close to the battlefield. And the little girl with golden hair, that watched under the plum-tree among the hills of New Hampshire, and the little girl with bright brown hair, that waited by the roses among the green fields of Georgia, were fatherless.

GONE WITH A HANDSOMER MAN.

WILL CARLETON.

JOHN.

VE worked in the field all day, a plowin' | And to see the way they eat makes me like

The letter it says, "Good-bye, for I'm a going And then she'll see things clear, and know

And when her face grows pale, and when her O God! if you want a man to sense the pains eyes grow dim,

Well, now, if this ain't a joke, with rather a bitter cream!

It seems as if I'd woke from a mighty ticklish dream;

And here's my father here, a waiting for sup- And I think she "smells a rat," for she smiles per, too;

I've been a riding with him-he's that "handsomer man than you."

Ha ha! Pa, take a seat, while I put the kettle on,

And get things ready for tea, and kiss my dear old John.

Why, John, you look so strange! come, what has crossed your track?

I was only a joking, you know; I'm willing

to take it back.

at me so queer,

I hope she don't; good gracious! I hope that they didn't hear!

'Twas one of her practical drives-she thought I'd understand!

But I'll never break sod again till I get the lay of the land.

But one thing's settled with me-to appreciate heaven well,

'Tis good for a man to have some fifteen mi

nutes of hell.

DEDICATION OF GETTYSBURG CEMETERY.

PRESIDENT LINCOLN.

OURSCORE and seven years ago our fathers brought forth upon
this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to
the proposition that all men are created equal. Now we are en-
gaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any
nation, so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure.
on a great battle-field of that war.

We are met

We are met to dedicate a por

tion of it as the final resting-place of those who here gave their lives that that nation might live.

It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. But in a larger sense we cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it far above our power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here.

It is for us, the living, rather to be dedicated here to the unfinished work they have thus far so nobly carried on. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us, that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to the cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion; that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain, that the nation shall, under God, have a new birth of freedom, and that the government of the people, by the people, and for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

O

OVER THE RIVER.

N. A. W. PRIEST.

VER the river they beckon to me,
Loved ones who crossed to the
other side;

The gleam of their snowy robes I see,
But their voices are drowned by
the rushing tide.

There's one with ringlets of sunny gold,
And eyes the reflection of heaven's `own
blue;

He crossed in the twilight gray and cold,
And the pale mist hid him from mortal view.
We saw not the angels that met him there-
The gate of the city we could not see;
Over the river, over the river,

My brother stands, waiting to welcome me.

Over the river the boatman pale

Carried another, the household pet;
Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale-
Darling Minnie! I see her yet!

She closed on her bosom her dimpled hands,

And fearlessly entered the phantom bark;

We watched it glide from the silver sands,
And all our sunshine grew strangely dark.
We know she is safe on the further side,
Where all the ransomed and angels be;
Over the river, the mystic river,

My childhood's idol is waiting for me.

For none return from those quiet shores,
Who cross with the boatman, cold and pale;
We hear the dip of the golden oars,

And catch a glimpse of the snowy sail; And lo! they have passed from our yearning hearts

They cross the stream and are gone for aye. We may not sunder the vail apart

That hides from our vision the gates of

day;

We only know that their barks no more
Sail with us o'er life's stormy sea;
Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore,
They watch, and beckon, and wait for

me.